


As Time Goes By

by Judith Proctor (Watervole)



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Episode: s01e08 The Duel, Episode: s01s05 The Web, M/M, Post-Episode: s01e03 Cygnus Alpha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-26
Updated: 2008-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-21 14:05:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4831895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watervole/pseuds/Judith%20Proctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by Judith Proctor and Vanessa Mullen</p><p>Avon and Blake come to an understanding of what they mean to one another.  A platonic love gradually becomes sexual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Time Goes By

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Judith and Aralias, the archivists: This story was originally archived at [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Hermit_Library), which was closed due to maintenance costs and lack of time. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2015. We posted announcements about the move and emailed authors as we imported, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hermitlibrary/profile). 
> 
> This work has been backdated to 26th of May 2008, which is the last date the Hermit.org archive was updated, not the date this fic was written. In some cases, fics can be dated more precisely by searching for the zine they were originally published in on [Fanlore](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Main_Page).
> 
> Previously published in 'Fire and Ice IV'.

**A Kiss is Still a Kiss  
** _(After Cygnus Alpha)_

 

The corridors seemed to be a mixture of hexagonal and straight sided ones. Avon hadn't yet been able to determine what the rationale for the difference was, apart from the obvious fact that the hexagonally walled ones didn't have any doors leading off them. It wasn't terribly important right now. What was important was that the treasure room lay down the end of this particular corridor and if he didn't grab some for himself before Blake got around to taking an inventory, he might not get another chance. He cursed Jenna mentally for having been so insistent on retrieving Blake from Cygnus Alpha. It would have been the perfect place to dump a crusader - he could have spent years happily formenting revolt against Vargas. 

"Jenna? Can you lend me a hand?" Blake's voice.

"Sorry, only me." Avon turned into the medical unit, curious to see what Blake had discovered. 

"Ah." Blake looked mildly embarased, then shrugged slightly and winced. "I need a hand getting this tabard off."

"Indeed?" He halted on the verge of a more pithy comment. Blake looked tired, and his eyes were creased with pain. Gently, he lifted the top off, questioned Blake with his eyes, and then unfastened the shirt and started to slide it off Blake's shoulders. Blake's sudden gasp stopped him.

"It's sticking."

There was blood all over Blake's back, black and encrusted, gumming the shirt firmly to him. And when had that happened? Who had had the temerity to flog Blake while he and Jenna were playing with diamonds? Silently, Avon fetched a basin of water and soaked the fabric, easing it away from the angry weals. Guilt stung him Blake had saved him from Liberator's defence system. He wasn't normally so callous of his debts. Besides, it was quite one thing for Avon to abandon Blake; it was another entirely for Vargas to injure him. He felt proprietorial: Blake was his territory; Vargas did not have his permission to trespass there.

"What happened down there?" he asked, mesmerised by Blake's blood, flowing red in the bowl as he rinsed out his cloth.

"Two good men died." Blake turned on him in sudden, sharp fury. "And where were you?"

"Problems with signal congestion. Too many bracelets. It took us a while to sort it all out." A change of subject seemed in order. "What did Vargas do? What did he want?"

"Liberator, what else."

Another debt then. Avon removed the last of the shirt and gazed at the pattern revealed. The long thin lines of the lash, and in their centre, a small burn in the shape of a hand. He could visualise the scene now: Blake, half naked, tied to a frame and unable to move; the lash in the hands of his torturer. But now, the blood soaked lash was set aside, instead there was the iron, freshly glowing from its brazier. Blake would sense something worse was coming, try to turn his head, even unable to see what it was, he would fear it. Then, he would feel the heat approaching, there would be the pungent smell of burning as the heat scorched the fine hairs on his back. Finally, the scream, as the iron bit deep. Avon could hear that scream; in his mind, it blended with Anna's as she cried out under the interrogator's hand. It was his worst nightmare, not knowing what had happened to her. Had she died cleanly, or had they tortured her to death, trying to gain information about him?

"Tell me about it."

"I'd rather not discuss the details, thank you."

His finger hovered over the scar, tracing its outline without touching. He had a morbid desire to understand Blake, to know what gave him the strength to refuse under such pain. Instead, he interrogated the medical computer. More forthcoming than Zen, it gave him treatment instructions, even unbending so far as to reveal where things were to be found.

"Take this." He thrust the tablet into Blake's hand.

"What is it?"

"Antibiotic. Unless you'd rather fall prey to whatever interesting specimens of bacteria lurk on Cygnus?"

Blake swallowed it. Avon found a healing pad and applied it to the cuts. Blake protested at the touch, but gave way to his ministrations.

"Was it worse than Earth?" He found it hard to imagine anything worse than this mutilation of another human being.

Blake laughed, a horrid bark. "Ever heard of DNS?"

"No."

"Direct Neural Stimulation. They don't need to mess around, they go directly to the pain centres of the brain." His shoulders bunched with tension.

Avon rested a fleeting hand on Blake's shoulder. "I'm sorry I asked."

It was as though Blake hadn't heard him.

"Imagine that your whole body is on fire. You're burning, burning in the fires of hell, and there's no escape. You can't run. Your body is strapped down, you're helpless, and you're screaming, screaming, until your throat is raw."

It wasn't tactful to ask, but he was drawn into it, had to know.

"Did you tell them what they wanted?"

Blake slumped. "How the hell do I know? I recall trying to hold on, trying to buy my friends time to run, but I don't know. I only remember snatches."

"I thought some of it was coming back now?"

"Fragments. I can tell the false memories now, they lack depth, but I can't access the real ones. Family, friends, I can't touch them." Fists bunched, jaw clenched with passion, "They took it all away."

Blake was a shell of a man. Fragile and empty. What had he been before they emptied his mind? What had he been when living drugged by the administration? Avon tried to imagine all that vitality and determination drained away. It was a violation.

On Earth, Avon had been one of the elite; the intelligentsia were always spared the pacification drugs. On the London he'd shared Blake's pattern of eating and starving. He'd felt the dimming of his own mind. There had been days when simply getting out of bed had seemed like too much effort. But Blake, Blake was the one who had insisted, cajoled, and made them all start on the next cycle of going without food and drink so that they could think and plan head. To think of Blake permanently drugged, living in a dream, it was too much to bear.

He felt a sudden urge to protect this idiot, who was so clearly incapable of protecting himself.

He fixed his concentration on the job at hand. The healing pad seemed to function well. The swelling was subsiding and the colour of the skin fading. Blake would probably carry the marks until the day he died, but the pain should be easing off now. The physical pain at any rate. He ran a hand down Blake's back, feeling the smoothness of the skin.

"Does that feel better?"

Blake nodded. "Where does it all end?" he asked softly. "So many dead, and the only way to justify their deaths is to fight on."

There was no answer to that. Personally, Avon wasn't in the least upset by the death of a couple of his fellow convicts, but he suspected that Blake was thinking mainly of those he'd lost on Earth. Those who had died because they had been related to him or had believed in him. What weight did Blake bear for their loss?

And Blake was going to go through it all again. The system had destroyed him once, nearly destroyed him a second time, and now, here he was, staggering to his feet to take it on yet a third time. That took guts. And when Blake failed, as he must inevitably fail? When he was betrayed, as he must inevitably be betrayed? Who was going to take care of Blake and pick up the pieces?

Blake turned to face him, and Avon was lost. There was a plea in those eyes, the heart cry of a man who had taken more pain than he could bear and could no longer shoulder the load alone. Then, having revealed too much, he looked away.

"Blake," Avon whispered. "Look at me."

He captured Blake's face in his hands and looked deep into his eyes. Words were beyond him, he couldn't have said what he wanted to. He kissed Blake gently on the lips, an affirmation of love, fealty, everything that he could express. An endless moment that spoke heart to heart, soul to soul, that bound Avon in ways that he didn't even want to consider.

Blake's hand squeezed his gently in thanks, and the moment ended. Without words, Avon escorted Blake to his cabin and left the exhausted man to sleep.

Avon slept soundly that night, untroubled by dreams. He was at peace, and that was a rare enough occurrence in itself.

In the morning, he sought Blake at breakfast.

Blake glanced up from his food as Avon entered, then returned his full attention to consuming a bowl of some pink alien mush.

Avon, paused, disconcerted. "Blake?"

"Save your breath, Avon. You don't need to maintain the act any longer. Jenna told me - everything."

Jenna? His mind was awhirl. Cygnus Alpha had had been a lifetime ago.

"Oh, you needn't worry." Blake sounded horribly sarcastic. "You're quite safe. I won't toss you off the ship. Your way isn't mine."

Avon's hands betrayed him, reaching out for Blake, wanting to touch him and shatter the nightmare.

"Go peddle your shop-soiled charms elsewhere."

He fled. The pain was too great to handle in Blake's presence. Like all things that hurt him, he would bury it deep inside, batten it down and never let emerge for others to see. But it would still be there.

He had given his soul, and he couldn't take it back.

  

**A Sigh is Just a Sigh  
** _(After ‘The Web’)_

He hadn’t intended to go into Avon’s room, but the cry caught at him as he passed the door. Blake palmed the lock and walked in, momentarily surprised that Avon hadn’t set the lock code but then again, why should he bother? No one here except Vila would steal anything and Vila would simply have bypassed the lock. Illumination from the corridor cast a broad path of light into the room; Blake walked uncertainly forward, disconcerted by the unfamiliarity of the half-light, and looked around. Avon’s cabin was still unfamiliar territory, he didn’t come here often. Essentially spartan as were all their quarters, the room was marked as Avon’s by the computer parts littering the table and a couple of abstract paintings on the wall. One caught his eye for a moment, a white bird flying into the heart of a maelstrom, then another cry from the sleeping section forced his attention back to Avon. 

Blake stepped quickly through the empty doorway to peer down at the body on the bed. Sweat beaded Avon’s forehead, his hair was disordered and the fingers of the hand flung over the side were splayed taut in shock. Even in the dim light, the row of blisters across the palm was clearly visible. 

The hand spasmed and Avon cried out again. “I don’t know where they are,” he said clearly. 

Blake caught the hand, held it in his own. “It’s all right,” he said roughly, “they can have the damn power cells.”

Avon seemed to relax, the tension bleeding from his neck and shoulders. His head tossed a few times from side to side, then he lay still, his hand remaining in Blake’s. Blake stared at him, trying to put his own thoughts in order. Had he made the right decision this afternoon, or the wrong one? They had been lucky to defeat the Lost. Suppose the Lost had used the power cells to wipe out the Decimas, how would he have felt then about handing over the power cells to save Avon?

Eyes adjusting to the dark now, he glanced around the small bedroom. If Avon’s hand was that sore, he would have— Ah, there it was. A small jar of ointment. Blake took a dab on his finger and slowly worked it into the skin of Avon’s palm. An Outsider with long, greasy curls had once told him that you could read a man’s past and future from the lines of his palm. Blake ran a finger along the creases, but they revealed nothing. Nothing to explain the mystery of why Avon had saved his life from Cally’s bomb this morning, nor why he’d backed Blake this afternoon. He turned the hand over and studied the fingers; short and square tipped, they were competent, confidant fingers. Any man would be frightened of injury to his hands, but Avon, Avon who had claimed that their freedom counted for far more than the lives of the Decimas, hadn’t betrayed him by so much as the flicker of an eyelid. Even in his nightmare, he was still defending Blake’s interests. 

Guardian angels came in many guises, but did they ever come dressed as dark-eyed, cynical embezzlers? Somehow Blake doubted it; whatever Avon was, he was unique to himself. 

He was ducking the question, letting his thoughts wander. Blake forced himself ruthlessly back to the original problem: had he been right to hand over the power cells? How did an obligation to a group of people compare to an obligation to an individual? No, not an individual. If he was being honest with himself, then he had to admit that it made a different when the individual was a friend. The difference might not be acceptable morally but it existed emotionally, and if it existed, then it had to be acknowledged. That in turn meant that he had to acknowledge his friendship for Avon. Blake scratched the back of his neck ruefully. In a few, short weeks, they had progressed from the point where Avon had tried to abandon him on Cygnus Alpha to the point where Blake had been prepared to risk the lives of an entire race of sentient beings on Avon’s behalf. One of them had certainly changed, but which? 

That was simple; it was obviously Avon that had changed. Blake was what he had always been. No, cancel that - he’d couldn’t remember what he’d always been. The past tugged at him like a void, threatening him with its yawning emptiness. He gripped Avon’s hand tighter, using it as an anchor to hold him to the present. Maybe it wasn’t that Avon had changed, simply that he’d learnt to understand Avon better. If you got far enough beneath the cynicism, there was a solid core, something unchanging at the heart of the man. Call it honour if you would; whatever you called it, it didn’t change its nature. If Blake had been prepared to suffer Vargas’s torture to protect Liberator and those on board her, why should it surprise him that Avon would accept pain to protect the Decimas? Had it been for the Decimas? Or had it been for him? And was that the ultimate answer for himself? Avon’s act, he felt instinctively, had been personal not philanthropic and he had automatically responded on the same level, acting for Avon, not the Decimas. 

The puzzled resolved to his satisfaction, Blake sighed and allowed himself to relax. He gazed down at the sleeping man and tried to analyse his feelings. He enjoyed Avon’s humour, there was no doubt about that; the necessity to come up with fast repartee kept him alert. Their endless arguments over policy forced him to examine his beliefs, often strengthening them in the process; he knew where he stood now and what he believed in, and slightly to his own surprise, the list of what he believed in included Avon. 

He needed Avon. What did Avon need from him in return?

If he were honest with himself, he already knew the answer. Acceptance. Avon was a lonely man; on the London he’d kept himself apart from the other prisoners, rarely mixing socially and flaying others with his sarcasm if they dared too close. Avon’s needs were multi-layered. He needed someone who could accept that sarcasm, give back as good as he got, argue with him, challenge him, but ultimately love him. Love for Avon wasn’t a major affair to be proclaimed with trumpets, it was a quiet thing, almost taken for granted, something so essential to his inner self that you didn’t profane it by shouting it aloud. Love, trust, fealty, and he’d given Avon all three without even realising that he had done so. How long had he had them from Avon? Longer. Since the day they’d left Cyngus Alpha, the day Avon had killed him, the day Avon had tried to abandon him. That should have rankled, but it didn’t any more; they were beyond that now. He knelt beside the bed, still holding Avon’s hand, and bent over to kiss him gently on the lips. A promise, an affirmation, an understanding, whatever you chose to call it. Blake chose to call it love. 

Dark-winged lashes fluttered open; Avon looked deep into his eyes.

There were many things that Blake could have said, some grateful, some maudlin, some sarcastic. He said none, settling for silence instead. They remained quiet for a minute, perhaps more, then Avon gave the faintest of nods and closed his eyes again. Benediction, absolution, the name didn’t matter. Blake nodded in response, squeezed Avon’s hand gently and left. 

Nothing had changed and yet everything had changed. There would still be arguments, probably more vicious than ever. Avon would still challenge his every decision; Blake would still fight passionately for his Cause; but some things didn’t need to be demonstrated to be true; some things didn’t need to be spoken of to exist. Even if they never mentioned it again, the love would still be there.

 

**As Time Goes By  
** _(After ‘Duel’)_

“All right, I should have killed him. Satisfied?” Blake slammed his plate on the table with unnecessary violence. 

“No.” Ignoring the outburst, Avon dialled himself a cup of coffee and came over to stand behind Blake’s chair. “When you meet Travis again, you will spare his life again and put all of us at risk.” His free hand hovered over Blake’s shoulder, reached a decision at some ganglion entirely independent of his brain, and swooped to rest on a roughspun shirt, thumb rubbing distractedly at the top of the shoulder blade. “It makes little difference really,” his voice sounded hollow even to his own ears, “I lose, even if you do kill him.”

A hand came up to rest on top of his own. “You have to decide what you want, Avon. I can’t change what I am.”

He abandoned his coffee onto the table, freeing him to rub Blake’s other shoulder as well. The tactile contact gave him something to centre on: the feel of Blake alive and solid under him. The warmth of his skin filtered through the shirt, the warmth that was Blake through and through. It distracted him, pulled at him - he needed Blake to be ruthless, to be prepared to kill anyone who stood in his path; not this warmth, this affection that loved too easily and too well. An therein lay the dilemma: the man who wouldn’t kill Travis was the man he loved.

“I would have killed him.”

Blake’s hand reached up, seeking his face and Avon dipped his head, allowing the fingers to find purchase in his hair.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Blake replied. “You’re a better man that you give yourself credit for.”

“I’m not.” But the words were silent, whispered into the inviting comfort of Blake’s curls. They smelt of Blake, a clean, earthy scent that drew him closer, to bury his face and inhale ever more deeply. His body was aware of Blake on every level; just to be like this, touching Blake, holding him, gave Avon the illusion that he could stay here forever and protect Blake from all harm. He bent further forward still, slid his hands down the broad chest, claiming possession of this territory.

“I should have been there,” he said quietly into Blake’s ear.

Blake separated them carefully, stood and turned to look into Avon’s eyes. “ That bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“That it was Jenna and not me? I thought …”

A hand reached out to trace a line along Avon’s cheek. “Would you have wanted to be the one to teach me the meaning of the death of a friend?” As the refectory door opened to admit Vila, the hand was abruptly snatched back. “Doubtless Sinofar knew what she was doing,” Blake added in a harsher tone.

“Avon certainly didn’t,” Vila announced cheerily. “He went to sleep in the middle of it all.”

Avon glared at Vila, willing him to melt into a pool on the floor. “Staring at a view screen all night would have served no useful purpose.”

“At least it would have shown you cared.”

“Ah,” Blake interjected, “but Avon believes in cold rationality, don’t you, Avon?” But his eyes spoke of something different, of faith and understanding. 

When Blake looked at him like that, he was an empty vessel, and Blake filled him with things that he couldn’t even begin to name. Overflowing, he turned, throwing out, “Blake, I’ve finished that analysis of the auto-repair systems. If you want to see it, you’d better come now.”

Ignoring Vila’s reminder of his uneaten lunch, Blake followed Avon through the door and along Liberator’s sterile corridors. No dust ever settled here, there was nothing to mark the passage of time except the slow development of whatever it was that was growing between himself and Avon. Flirtation was too shallow a word to use for something so deep, when a single touch from Avon meant more than being married to most people would have done. It wasn’t about sex, and yet sex had the potential to be a part of it. Would they take the step this time, cross the unspoken barrier that they had been treading ever closer to? Once, Blake would have feared the possibility, perhaps been repelled by it - he’d never been attracted to men - but this was something that went beyond gender: he loved Avon, the whole person, and to now express that love physically seemed merely a natural progression. He was obscurely grateful that he wasn’t homosexual by nature, the quick flame of sexual desire was capable of blinding men to deeper truths. 

When Avon opened his cabin door and ushered him in, Blake made towards his usual seat only to be stopped by a light touch on the shoulder. He turned, and was caught by the naked vulnerability of Avon’s expression. Eyes, black-irised and fathomless, gazed into his own. Drowning in those infinite pools, he was peripherally aware of trivia, of the slight disorder of Avon’s fringe, of the laughter lines around his eyes, of a minute scar just below the lip. Ripples of silence spread out around them, filling the room with stillness. The muted hum of the ship’s engines, the whisper of the air conditioning, and a faraway laugh as Vila recounted a joke to Cally, simply did not exist. There was nothing in the world except the two of them. 

Ensorcelled, Blake reached out a hand to trace the line of Avon’s cheekbone. Down-soft hair covered the skin, changing under his lowering fingers to the scratchy roughness of incipient beard. Avon’s fingers echoed his own, featherlight as they touched the bushy irregularity of Blake’s eyebrow, questing as they followed the outline of an ear hidden behind a thicket of curls, teasing the ear lobe before descending to caress the column of his throat. Warmth pooled within Blake as he arched his head back, a slow, hungry fire that welcomed the anticipated touch of Avon’s lips on his neck. With tantalising care, Avon slowly kissed his way upwards, each fleeting touch so gentle that Blake could almost think he imagined it. Almost, except for the thudding of his own heart that accompanied each caress. By the time Avon reached his lips, Blake was aware of a tremor in his jaw, of a sweet emptiness within him that could only be filled by Avon. Starving, he sealed his lips to Avon’s, kissing with a hunger that demanded he hold Avon close, taste his mouth, feed on the very life of him. This was reality. This man, whose own arms clasped so fiercely around Blake in implicit promise of love, had an intensity which none of the false loves that the Federation mind butchers had given him could ever hope to approach. 

He wanted the feel of Avon’s skin against him, wanted to see more of this strange, beautiful man who had come to have such importance to him. Beautiful? Even a week ago he wouldn’t have thought that. But Avon was beautiful; he had beauty of soul, and more than that. Eyes closed, Blake replayed in his mind the way the light caught in Avon’s hair, the curve of his eyelashes, the rare smile that lit up his face when he was genuinely happy. He broke free from the kiss and looked at Avon, content simply to register every detail of his lover’s face.

“Blake.” A threaded whisper of a word. 

Avon’s hand reached out for Blake’s waist. Blake trapped the errant hand under his own, held it close for a moment, then guided it to the buckle of his belt. Avon undid the belt by feel, never breaking eye contact with Blake. It fell to the floor unheeded by both of them as Avon proceeded to life Blake’s tunic over his head. The sleeves were tight and Blake tugged in assistance, capturing a kiss from Avon when his head re-emerged from inside. His captive escaped with a quick twist and started work on Blake’s shirt, each fastener sounding abnormally loud as it snapped undone. Blake slipped his arms out of the sleeves and let the garment drift ways as Avon returned to his trousers. In spite of everything, embarrassment flared at Avon’s touch. The alpha in him insisted that this was wrong: he was a man; they were both men. 

Sensing his tension, Avon drew back, 

Blake held out his hands in apology. “I …”

Avon nodded in quick understanding. “Sit down in the bedroom, I’ll join you in a minute.”

Blake wandered through the open door and sat on the edge of the bed, head in hands, trying to steady his tangled emotions. He’d known for the last couple of weeks that this day would come but now that he was here, he was suddenly afraid. Love he understood, but male sex was uncharted territory. He’d heard stories of the things men did to one another: buggery, weird sexual games with whips and leather hoods. He wanted none of it. Hearing the soft sound of footfalls, he looked up and lost his fears. Avon was naked, unselfconsciously naked in the way of man before the fall. This was no strange travesty of love; this was simply a consumption of everything that existed between them. Blake unfastened his trousers and discarded them, defying the mores of the Federation as he had always defied its politics. 

 They made love. 

 

In the warm darkness of the night he was complete: Avon’s arm held him around the chest; Avon’s lips kissed the back of his neck and deep inside him, Avon’s penis rested. He was stretched, filled, in a sensation that went beyond words. Avon made the smallest of movements inside him and Blake felt it in the tiny rills of pleasure. He stayed still, lost in the touch of Avon’s body against his back, in the strength of the hand that drew him close, in the faint cry that Avon made whenever he moved with him. He pressed his hand to Avon’s, conveying his emotion by the pressure of his touch. Avon moved again, a minute thrust that kept them both soaring above some high, far distant plateau. Together they felt, riding the updrafts together, until Avon came in a shudder and a deep inhalation of breath. Cresting down on the winds, Blake held him and marvelled at the joy to be had in sharing such pleasures. In that moment, he ceased entirely to regret the erasure of his past life. Nothing that he had lost could ever mean as much to him as Avon’s love. 

For the first time that he could remember, Blake was happy.  

 

_[This day and age we're living in  
_ _Gives cause for apprehension  
_ _With speed and new invention  
_ _And things like fourth dimension._

_Yet we get a trifle weary  
_ _With Mr. Einstein's theory.  
_ _So we must get down to earth at times  
_ _Relax relieve the tension_  

_And no matter what the progress  
_ _Or what may yet be proved  
_ _The simple facts of life are such  
_ _They cannot be removed.]_  

 _You must remember this  
_ _A kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh.  
_ _The fundamental things apply  
_ _As time goes by._  

 _And when two lovers woo  
_ _They still say, "I love you."  
_ _On that you can rely  
_ _No matter what the future brings  
_ _As time goes by._  

\- Herman Hupfeld


End file.
